“May I see you, Philip? Are you very busy?”
There was something in her voice that caused him to glance around quickly. “Why, what is it, mother?”
He left his chair and went to her side. He saw that her face was red and swollen as though from much weeping. “What is it, dear?” He put his arms about her. “Does Anson bring bad news of any sort?”
By a sudden gesture she freed herself from his embrace, covering her face with her apron.
“Oh! Philip, it's awful.” And she began to cry softly.
“But what is it—why don't you tell me?”
He tried to draw the apron away that he might see her face again, but she resisted his gentle force.
“What is it, dear? Is it Anson—is he ill?”
“It's worse than that! Oh! a million times worse!”
At her words the desperate sickening feeling begotten of some great and unknown calamity, the forerunner of actual knowledge, came into his heart.